Fate: A SuperWhoLock FanFiction
by sparrowlovE123
Summary: Fate brought them together, in one place, at one time. The one location in the entire universe where all of them were needed the most. Personalities will clash, loyalties will sway and motives will be questioned as they try to understand why they were brought here, of all places. Fate brought them together, but will fate tear them apart? SuperWhoLock FanFiction in Westlake, TX.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One:**

Sam Winchester sat in a cheap motel, at a rickety table with an old computer, waiting for Dean.

Dean was supposed to be back three hours ago. What was he thinking, not even checking in? Sam had called at least five times already, and for all he knew, Dean could be dead. He had been even more reckless than usual lately, and it was really driving Sam up the wall. He was sick of always picking up the pieces after Dean, and Castiel was no help at all either.

Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He glanced at the clock, impatiently noting that it was ten at night. Standing quickly, he got a beer out of the refrigerator and popping the top, Sam left the table and sat on his bed. He turned on the television and left it on the first channel.

The latest episode of _Casa Erotica_ was just beginning when the door banged open and Dean burst in. Sam fumbled for the remote and switched it off as the intro played. Dean gave him a sidelong look and commented, "Awkward," before tossing the keys to the Impala on the counter.

"What's up, Sammy?" Dean asked carelessly, kicking off his shoes and sitting on his bed, like he didn't even know he had been gone for three hours later he should have been. Sam turned sideways and glared at Dean, who continued, laughing, "You look like you got a unicorn stuck up your ass."

"That's not funny, Dean."

Dean smirked. "Yeah, it is. Course it is, I said it. So what's wrong with you, Sam?"

Sam snapped. "What's wrong with me? Dean, you were supposed to be back three hours ago! What the hell were you doing? You could have been dead, and I wouldn't have even known because you didn't give enough crap to check in!"

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean said, leaning in conspiratorially. "But I met someone I needed to interview, and she needed _all_ my attention, if you know what I mean."

He winked, and Sam shuddered. "You're disgusting."

"It takes one to know one, little brother," Dean said, lying back on his bed. Looking over at the nightstand between the two queen beds, he stared intently at a machine for a few seconds, and then asked in a would-be casual voice, "You got any quarters?"

There was a Magic Fingers Massage Machine on the stand. Dean was oddly addicted to it, ever since he had discovered it a few years before. "Dude," Sam said, "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not enabling your sick habit."

"Dammit," Dean said absently, wishing he had something to do. "You know, I was thinking, Sam. All this credit card fraud and we still stay in crappy motels. Don't you think we work hard enough to stay at a place that actually has room service and frisky maids once in a while?" There was no reply from the other side of the room. "Sammy?"

Sam gasped, a sound that was painful and sharp. Dean hadn't heard him make that kind of sound for three years, not since he'd had one of his visions caused by the Yellow-Eyed Demon, Azazel.

"Sammy!" Dean leaped off his Magic Fingers and rushed to Sam's side. He was clutching his head and sucking in his breath without really releasing it. "Sam, are you okay? Talk to me!"

About fifteen seconds later, Sam blew out his breath and relaxed slightly. "Dean," he gasped, "I know where we need to go."

"What the hell? What are you talking about?"

He looked right into Dean's eyes and said, "Westlake, Texas, Dean. The entrance to Hell is going to open there in three weeks."

Dean looked at his brother's serious face, and even though he believed him, he was kind of pissed. "Dammit. How many freaking apocalypses are we gonna have to stop? I'm getting really tired of these sons of bitches."

Despite himself, Sam smiled at that.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was sitting in his armchair at 221B Baker Street, London, England.

He was _incredibly_ bored. No new cases, no one to talk to, John was on a date, everyone was ignoring his unexpected return from a possible death.

No one wanted to know how he had survived. No one cared. They just thought he was insane and attention-seeking.

Sherlock didn't feel the need to correct them. He knew he wasn't insane, no matter how much of a psychopath everyone tried to tell him that he was. Sherlock knew that he wasn't a psychopath - he was a high-functioning sociopath, and anyone who called him otherwise obviously hadn't done their research.

He reached for his violin absently, then took his hand away. As much as Sherlock liked to play the violin while he was thinking, he had nothing to think about. And that was driving him insane.

The door opened, and John walked in, surprisingly early. "Hi Sherlock," he said dejectedly, trudging in and shutting the door behind him.

"She broke up with you, didn't she?" Sherlock said rhetorically. "She broke up with you because she is, in fact, cheating on you with one of her coworkers."

John made a disgusted face at Sherlock. "How did you - You know, I don't even want to know. But did you really have to tell me why, Sherlock?"

"Saving you more pain and wasted time in the future." He smiled sarcastically. John scoffed at him and strode into the kitchen.

Picking up a paintbrush and absentmindedly coloring the back of his left hand a bright yellow, Sherlock absorbed himself as the phone rang. It was right next to him, but he didn't bother to pick it up. "Could you get that, John? I'm rather busy at the moment."

John snatched the phone out of its cradle, muttering obscenities under his breath as he did. "Hello...I see...Yes." He paused, held the phone away from his ear, and said, "Sherlock? It's for you."

Sherlock leaped out of his chair in excitement. He barely contained himself from dancing around the room. It was a case. He knew. Only people who had a case called that phone - he hoped it was something as exciting as his last few.

He grabbed the phone out of John's hand and answered. "Sherlock Holmes."

From the other line, he heard a male voice, one that was either American or Canadian, he couldn't tell yet. "Mr. Holmes. Thank you for giving me your time. We have a situation here that calls for your skill level alone."

"Where are you?"

"America. Westlake, Texas." The man sighed. It was obvious that something unexpected was happening, and he had no other options. That's how they always came to Sherlock: they had nowhere else to go, no one would believe them.

Either that, or something so out of the ordinary was happening that they thought that he was the only one who could handle it.

Still, it was surprising for Sherlock to get a call from an American. He'd never done a job overseas, and the prospect intrigued him. "What's the case?"

"My name is Lee Rosky. I'm an administrator at Westlake Academy, which is a school in this town. We seem to be under some sort of personal vendetta from a serial killer. Many of our staff and students have been murdered, and later found on school grounds. They've either been shot, stabbed, or burned to death. Some have been found on campus still alive, but they have been tied to chairs and stuck under some sort of symbol inked on the ceiling. These victims have suffered from extreme trauma, and have often been tortured. All who have been found like this have been hospitalized."

"How long has this been going on, and what do you expect me to do about it?" Sherlock asked dryly. "If this is murder, fine, I can find the killer, but I think that there is something bigger going on. It's highly unlikely that anyone with this kind of murder under their belt is simply insane, especially in this time and age."

"This has been going on for about two weeks," Rosky answered. "The police haven't been able to find anything, no leads, nothing. We even have the FBI involved, but nothing has been uncovered. We can't even figure out what the symbol on the ceilings mean. We just need you to find the killer, and we can put an end to this."

Sherlock glanced at John, who was watching him intently and trying to figure out what was being said on the other line. "How soon do you need me?"

"As soon as possible. We will pay for your airfare, stay, and other expenses. Also, how much do you want for this service? What do you usually charge your clients?"

"Let's talk about price when I get there. Right now, I'm more interested in this killer," Sherlock said, raking his right hand through his curls. "I'm booking the first flight to Dallas; I can be in the state nine hours from then."

"Thank you; I can't thank you enough, Mr. Holmes."

"I'll see you," Sherlock said shortly, and hung up. He jumped in the air for joy as Mrs. Hudson came in.

"Sherlock, what are you on about?" she exclaimed as Sherlock ran over and hugged her.

"A case! A _case_, Mrs. Hudson! Ha _ha_, I _knew_ there was one coming!" He paused and stared intently at John. "Pack your jumpers, John, we're going to America." Sherlock turned his attention back to both of them, shouting, "Murders at a school in Texas, mysterious symbols on the ceiling, disappearing cows, all sorts of kerfuffle! My God, this is _fantastic_!"

Sherlock sprinted out of the room to get his suitcase, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson staring after his retreating figure. "Well, good luck, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, patting John on the shoulder and walking into the kitchen.

"I'm a little worried, to be honest," John told her. "Sherlock in America...I just hope he doesn't demolish the entire country or get arrested or anything." He grabbed his computer and glanced into the kitchen, where she was daintily rearranging the cups in the cabinet. "As long as you're over there, would you mind making me a cup of tea while I buy those tickets?"

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she replied.

John shook his head. Some things, at least, never changed.


	3. Chapter 3

The Impala hummed beautifully as the Winchesters sped down the Interstate towards Texas. Dean glanced over at the passenger seat, where Sam was knocked out like he'd taken some hard core drugs. Laughing to himself, Dean gently stuck a straw in Sam's nose and turned up the music about ten times louder, blaring _The Eye of the Tiger_. Sam jolted and yelled while Dean laughed.

"Dude," Sam said indignantly. "Could you be more immature?"

"Live with it, Sammy," Dean laughed. "Because we may die in Westlake, Texas, and I want to make the most of this time."

Sam threw the straw at Dean. "You're unbelievable." He shifted in his seat and went back to sleep.

Dean turned the music up even louder as they passed the state border. "Drive Friendly, the Texas Way," Dean quoted, scoffing. "Drive friendly...nice try, bitch."

He gunned the engine and they sped through the lanes at close to twenty miles over the speed limit.

This was driving friendly, the Dean Winchester way.

Two hours after crossing the border, Dean was eating pie in the passenger seat.

Sam pulled into a parking lot at a school that looked like a country club, on top of a hill surrounded by cow fields. "This is a school?" he asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically. "Not much security. No wonder all these kids keep getting killed."

"Kids keep getting killed?" Dean looked around in bewilderment. "Did I miss something?"

"Dean, it was all over the news. I told you about this at lunch. Didn't you listen?"

Dean looked away. "Come on, man. I was eating! Don't you know not to tell me important crap while I'm eating?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but continued. "What I was saying was that there have been 64 murders of students and teachers here over the past month alone." Dean nodded, and at this encouragement, Sam elaborated, "Now, we know this is Hunter work because only a Hunter would know about the entrance to Hell being in Westlake. Also, we know that whichever people were killed were also possessed: they were either shot, stabbed, or burned. The ones that were left alive were tied to chairs underneath Devil's Traps, and have been hospitalized." Sam parked the Impala, and killed the engine. Dean waited for him to move, to get out, something, but he just sat there.

"What?" Dean asked harshly. "What else?"

"Dean, the people who were killed. They were either stabbed, shot, or burned. That means that whoever's doing this has the Colt. And Ruby's knife."

Dean's expression shifted, from thinking to shock to an angry intensity that would have disturbed Sam if he hadn't known that it wasn't directed at him. "Then let's go hunt that bitch down," he said, opening the door to the Impala and sauntering over to the arsenal they kept in the trunk.

There seemed to be some sort of festival going on at this school. Whatever the hell it was, Dean had no idea, but there were too many little kids running around for him to feel as comfortable as he usually did with his gun.

"Dammit," he said absentmindedly as they wandered through the crowds. "We can't do anything with all of these people around."

A short, round woman with an ugly blond haircut bumped into him, and Dean dropped the piece of pie he had snagged off of a table. It landed facedown on the ground, and he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he stared at at. "Aw, son of a bitch!" he exclaimed, bending over to pick it up.

"Watch your mouth, young man! There are children around!" the woman hissed, glaring at him brutally. Sam snickered under his breath, and she turned that killer stare on him too.

"Sorry, ma'am. It won't happen again," Dean lied, and she walked away. "What a stuck up bitch," he muttered to Sam.

Sam was laughing. "Shut up," Dean said, and started to walk in the direction of a knot of teenage girls.

"Dean!" Grabbing Dean's arm, Sam pulled him back, away from the girls. "You can't just go talk to the girls like that! They're still in high school!"

"Oh, Sammy, get you mind out of the freaking gutter. I just wanted to ask them where I can get some more pie."

As soon as Sam relaxed his grip, Dean shot towards the girls, turning around once to give Sam a wink that carried more meaning than anything else. Sam sighed. He should have known better, but for now, the best he could do was to accompany Dean.

He reached the group as Dean was saying, "My brother and I are here for a while, and we heard that the women at this school are very attractive -"

"-No, we didn't," Sam interjected, earning him a look from Dean.

Dean sighed, and said, "Ladies, this is my younger brother, Sam." Some of the girls giggled, and Dean elbowed Sam in the ribs, winking once more. "Anyways, would any of you care to show me where I can find some pie?"

One of them immediately jumped forward and volunteered to take Dean over to the pie table, and he left with her, inwardly rejoicing over scoring so early in the day. Sam stood with the other six girls, rocking back and forth on his heels awkwardly as he tried to figure out what to do.

He was relieved when one of the girls started the ring of introductions. "Hey, we never introduced ourselves. I'm Emma," she said, extending her hand for a semi-awkward handshake. No one else made a move to introduce themselves, so she named all of her friends, pointing to each of them in turn. "From left to right, Zoe, Shayla, Reagan, Lauren PP, and Lauren. There are two Laurens," she said, making sure that Sam knew what she was talking about. "Also, the one who went with Dean is Annie."

"Oh," Sam said. "Nice to meet you." _Nice to meet you?_ he thought. _What kind of a reply was that?_

He had never felt so stupid. Here he was alone with six high school girls, he was a twenty-six year old, he shouldn't be nervous to talk to anyone.

But he was. For some reason, the idea of lying to a bunch of innocent high school girls was worse than lying to his brother, to his dad, to the dying people he tried to save and couldn't. Of course, though, he continued. "So, um, what did Dean tell you about why we're here?"

The girls glanced at each other, looking confused. "He didn't tell us anything. He just came over and started talking about pie."

"Oh," Sam said. He had absolutely _nothing_ clever to say. This was Dean's forte, not his. Sam wasn't comfortable around teenage girls. It made him feel like a pedophile. "Well, my brother and I are just taking a tour of the country, seeing the sights, and stuff like that. I-" he said, but was interrupted when one of the girls said, pointing, "Is that _your_ car?"

Sam looked over his shoulder, at the Impala glinting in the afternoon sun. "Yeah," he said, shrugging. It wasn't a big deal to him; that car had been around his entire life. "It's my brother's."

"Oh my GOD!" she gasped, and went over to it, running her hands over the hood. "Oh my God, it's so beautiful!"

"Thanks," said a voice, and she whipped around to see Dean walking over to his car, a piece of pie in his hand. He smiled. It was nice to meet girls who could appreciate his baby.

He opened the hood, and proceeded to talk about his baby. The girl who had said it was beautiful was paying the most attention.

Dean finished, and she just stared at him. He smiled, almost to cover up the awkwardness, but he didn't mind. "You," she said, just looking into his eyes, "have to be the most beautiful man I have ever met, just because of your car."

He laughed. Dean hadn't originally planned to say this, but he said, "You want to take a ride?" Sam looked at him like he was crazy, but Dean continued recklessly, "I mean, you seem to love my baby and all so I thought that maybe you'd like to."

"Yes! Oh my God, yes!" She dashed over to the passenger side, Dean got in the driver seat, the engine roared and they shot out of the parking lot, windows down and going way faster than the twenty miles an hour school zone limit.

Sam cringed. He was left alone with the girls again, standing in a parking lot and feeling like he was incompetent, until a large black car pulled up and he had to jump back to avoid getting hit.

"What the _hell_?" he shouted, as a man with dark hair, a black coat, and a scarf wrapped around his neck leaped out of the driver's seat. "Who the hell do you think you _are_?"

"Oh, a welcoming committee," he commented dryly, extending his hand in a halfhearted gesture. "Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Don't speak to me again."

He walked away.

_What an ass_, Sam thought.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock looked at the man who had just jumped out of the way and saw someone who didn't know what to do with himself.

He was tall, taller than Sherlock himself was, with long brown hair and a dissatisfied mouth twisted off to the side in an angsty, somewhat uptight little frown. Sherlock ran his eyes over this man and deduced that he was in his mid-twenties, worried a lot, had a brother, spent a lot of time exercising but hardly any relaxing, didn't make much money, drank when he was upset, carried a gun in his waistband, was particular about his hair and had seen too much for someone his age.

He saw all of this in a single glance as he told this man to keep out of his way, but as he started off towards the building with John in his wake, Sherlock knew that they were being followed.

"I'm sorry, but what the hell do you even mean, don't speak to me again? You just almost ran me over - aren't you at least going to apologize or something?" Obviously this boy was rather dim. Sherlock cringed as he turned.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry that I nearly ran into you and interrupted your incredibly boring and mundane life. Please go back to it right now." He continued walking, ignoring the whispers from the herd of girls and the indignant expression of the annoyance in the plaid shirt.

"So you think you can just smash into anybody you want and walk away?"

"No, the point is that I _didn't_ hit you. I hope I needn't explain it further, but if I do, I'll use small words to be sure you understand." Sherlock gave him one of the most sarcastic smiles to ever grace his features and attempted to move on, rolling his eyes and sighing at the stupidity of these idiotic Americans. _Why can't people just _think_? _Sherlock grumbled mentally to himself.

The boy looked at Sherlock with pure hate, and suddenly, Sherlock knew that he was going to have to deal with a gun. It was completely immature and unnecessary, the situation didn't call for violence, and they were at a school, but Sherlock could tell from the man's body language that he was pissed and itching to shoot. John said warningly, "Sherlock..." because he saw it too, and Sherlock tried to stare his opposition down with the only indication of his fear being the constant scudding of his heart.

"Sam," one of the girls hissed, glancing nervously between him and Sherlock. Sam was looking menacing, and Sherlock stared back at him in cool distaste. He waited.

Sam moved suddenly, and Sherlock reacted without thinking, jumping out of the way and dropping to the ground behind a car before shots could be fired. Girls screamed; there was a purring of a well-loved engine, the slamming of a door, a girl cried, "Oh my God!" and a man's voice called, "Sammy!"

Sherlock glanced up. The man running towards Sam was undoubtedly his brother. He tackled Sam and sent him sprawling to the ground. "What the hell are you _doing_, Sammy? I leave for five minutes and when I come back you've got your gun on some poor bastard! Calm down!"

The man struggled to keep his brother contained, and all seemed to be settling down. Sherlock rose and walked slowly over to the brothers, ignoring the hissing of John's voice calling, "_Sherlock!"_

Sherlock was sure that there would be a logical explanation for this; he was positive that he would be able to deduce the answer in less that a minute. But Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was shocked to see that, when Sam twisted in his brother's grip to glare at him, his originally soft brown eyes had become an inky, complete, soulless jet black.

Dean didn't understand what the hell was going on. Were the damn laws of the universe being rewritten? All that he could process was that they were at a school, he doubted that Sam had been completely alone this whole time, and yet he was possessed.

Sam was fighting him violently, jerking in his grip and moving with more that his usual strength. "Dammit," Dean growled, pulling a zip tie out of his jacket pocket and fastening his brother's wrists together. There were gasps from the unfortunate audience, and Dean was reminded again of why they didn't do work at schools, for the most part.

He glanced up; the tall man who that sick bastard inside of Sammy had tried to shoot was walking slowly forward, inching closer to the brothers. He didn't look surprised when Dean taped Sam's mouth shut, grabbed him by the collar of his plaid shirt and shoved him in the backseat of the Impala. "You're his brother, I presume?" the man said, without any real question in the statement.

"Yeah," Dean replied, a little absently. He brushed his hands off on his pants and glanced through the window, noticing that Sam had stopped struggling, and was giving him the puppy eyes. "Sorry, Sammy," Dean yelled through the window. "Can't let you out until I know it's you in that grapefruit of yours and not some fugly son of a bitch walking around in your meatsuit. Sure you understand." He turned away so he wouldn't have to see Sam's expression in that moment.

Dean looked at the man standing in front of him, and continued to ignore the girls in the vicinity. "Did you notice anything weird about him, you know, before he tried to shoot you? Like a cold spell, the smell of sulfur, anything?"

"Other than his disturbing lack of a decent shirt, I did see that his eyes were completely black right when you tackled him. Then he blinked and they were ordinary." The man paused, the wind ruffling his curly black hair. "I'm not..._seeing_ things, am I? This actually happened?"

"Yeah," Dean dropped his voice so that the girls wouldn't hear. "My brother... He's possessed by a demon."

The man became suddenly animated, taking a few steps backward, and clapping his hands close to his mouth. "Demons? Ah!" He seemed excited, rather than scared, so Dean was surprised and a little confused as this man ran up to his companion and said excitedly, "Did you hear that, John? _Demons!"_ He turned and faced Dean again, stepping closer and saying confidentially, "So the strange things that have been happening at this school, the murders, the injuries, they're all demonic activity?"

Dean was shocked that this man was taking it so calmly. "Well, it's more complicated than that, but essentially...yes."

The man stared at the Impala without seeing it, and said softly, "Then, I suppose...when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." He glanced up at Dean, as if truly seeing him for the first time, sticking out his black gloved hand. Dean took it and they shook; the man said, "Sherlock Holmes," with a small smile on his face.

"Dean Winchester," Dean replied. He gestured at the backseat of the car, "And this is my brother, Sam. He's not feeling like himself." Finally acknowledging the girls, who were being relatively calm about the whole thing, he asked, "Is there a place where we can go and no one will disturb us? I need to talk to my brother."


	5. Chapter 5

"All right, you son of a bitch," Dean Winchester snarled, resting his ass against the side of a desk and leaning forward at the waist into the face of the demon inside of his brother. "You gonna talk, or am I gonna have to make you?"

The thing inside his brother laughed, using Sam's face. "Oh, Dean. And risk damaging _this_ fine suit I'm wearing? I'd like to see you try."

Dean smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes by a long shot. "Let's just cut to the chase, then, jackass. How are you even in Sam right now? He may be an idiot, but he's not stupid - we got inked at the same time.

The demon threw back its head and laughed; Dean replied by squirting it with holy water, twisting his mouth into a face of cold fury while it screamed. "You see, I know what will hurt Sam. And holy water -" he leaned forward and glared into the demon's face "- holy water won't so much as give Sam a shower. So you can kiss my ass - I can make you tell me anything I want."

They were in one of the science labs on campus. A Devil's Trap had already been scrawled on the ceiling by whoever was there before, and Dean intended to take advantage of it. Unfortunately, a few of the girls were still there; Sherlock and his companion, John Watson, were watching with interest while Dean took control of the interrogation.

Dean felt unbalanced without Sam there to soothe him. He hated it when they were separated, yet he knew that they had the unhealthiest codependent relationship in history. You know, besides like, Edward Cullen and Bella Swan. (God, Dean hated them)

Sam was in the center of the Devil's Trap, duct taped to a chair and smiling unpleasantly while Dean mentally debated what to do next. On an impulse, he stepped forward and pulled the collar of Sam's shirt away from his chest.

"Dammit," Dean hissed. There was a nasty red mark through the anti-possession tattoo over his brother's heart. "Sammy, what happened to you?" he muttered under his breath.

"Sorry, Sammy's not home right now, can I take a message?" Dean was itching to shoot this son of a bitch, but somehow he restrained himself.

Instead, he replied, "Go to hell."

"Been there, done that. Not anxious to go there again, but by all means, if it makes you feel better..." It looked up at him coyly. "Not that I'll be there for long." Dean sensed that the demon was about to drop Sam, so he seized the moment.

"I'm not done with you. What do you know about the gates of hell opening?" Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean saw Sherlock and John glance at each other, as if they each held the answer, so he said, without taking his eyes off of the demon, "I'll explain later."

"What do I know about it?" The demon laughed in a disconcertingly Sam-ish way and looked off to the side, scoffing. "Dean, Sam hasn't been to visit you in about five days. He's been in here the whole time, screaming to get out. Remember when he went to the store, and didn't come back for two hours, and you thought he was just getting laid? _It was all part of the plan, Dean_. You were _supposed_ to come here."

"Son of a bitch," Dean said aggressively, and doused the demon with holy water. "All right, you did your crap. We're here, dammit. Now get out of my brother."

Nothing happened. Feeling morbidly insecure, Dean glanced behind him at John and Sherlock, who stared back. "I'm sorry, was something supposed to happen there?" John asked, sounding genuinely curious and confused.

"Uh, no, I was just, uh, hoping that maybe it would get out, and I wouldn't have to do the exorcism and all that." Dean looked sheepishly back at Sam, who stared at him with eyebrows raised skeptically. "'Cause, you know...it's a lot of work."

"This should be interesting," Sherlock said, moving forward to sit closer to the demon. It looked at him with pure hate, as if it knew him and had a personal vendetta. "Dear me, judging me already? I must say, no one has ever looked at me with such unsullied loathing before. I'm flattered; truly touched." The sarcasm in his voice rang through the room, and Dean was a bit impressed.

Dean opened his father's journal and performed the exorcism. He hated watching Sam scream like that, but it was better than seeing that son of a bitch take control of him like that. Finally, when the black smoke shot out of Sam's mouth and into the vents, Dean felt the tiniest bit of relief. It was quickly shattered as he looked back at Sam, who had collapsed into himself on his chair.

"Sammy?! Sam! Talk to me!" Dean rushed forward into the circle, cut all of Sam's bonds, and caught him as he slumped forward into his arms. One heart-stoppingly long moment later, Dean heard a hoarse voice in his ear say, "Dean?"

"Dammit, Sam, I thought...Are you okay?" Dean was surprised at how his voice broke as he tried to say what he hadn't wanted to even think. He was losing it. But then again, everything about this situation was completely wrong, in every respect.

"Dean...I remember," Sam whispered. He propped himself up on his elbow and inched his way over to the teacher's desk, leaning up against it for support. "I remember everything that happened...I was awake the whole time, but damn, that demon was strong. I couldn't shake it, no matter what I did."

"It's okay, Sammy, you're fine." Dean was talking to his twenty-six year old brother as if he was eleven, but he didn't notice, nor did Sam seem to care. "Can you stand?"

In response, Sam clambered to his feet, glad to have control over his long, gangly limbs at last. He saw their new acquaintances, and held out his hand as he approached them. "Sherlock Holmes, right? Sorry for almost shooting you. Sam Winchester." To his relief, both Sherlock and John shook his hand, seeming to forgive him for the earlier mishap.

"Let's get the hell out of here. I'm starving," Dean announced, swaggering over to the door and leaving before asking if any of them wanted to come as well. Sam noticed that the girls had dispersed, although he guessed that they weren't going to tell anyone about what they had seen, just whisper to themselves about it. That, at least, was a relief.

"You two want to come? We'll probably go to some crappy hole in the wall, but knowing Dean, he'll pick a place that has good pie," Sam offered, hoping to seal the deal on a final peace offering.

Sherlock looked like he was going to roll his eyes and turn him down (probably to go be socially awkward in a hotel room, Sam couldn't resist thinking), but John replied, "Of course. Who's car?"

Sam laughed shortly. "You haven't experienced _anything_ until you've driven with Dean. Let's go."

The three of them walked easily out of the building, catching up with Dean and heading towards the Impala. As they walked, it somehow wasn't strange to them that they were all together; somehow, it felt right. They felt like a team.

Even though they had their suspicions - Sherlock thought the rest were all idiots, John was disconcerted about being the shortest one there, Dean didn't like Sherlock's morbid fascination with the supernatural, and Sam wasn't ready to trust anyone besides family to easily - they knew too much to back out now. So they reached the Impala, opened the creaky doors, and settled comfortably into its bench seats.

Dean gunned the engine, and, playing the song he left off on (_The Eye of the Tiger_), he started singing loudly. There was a collective groan from the other passengers; Sherlock exclaimed, "Oh, dear God, really? Can we save the torture for another time?"

Sam leaned against the window, resigning himself to his older brother's irritating singing, while Sherlock didn't make it out of the parking lot before he tried to stop Dean from singing by strangulation, having to be physically restrained by John.

Sherlock had just started to get used to the horror when it reached a new level. Dean exclaimed, slamming his hands on the steering wheel in time to the song, "It's the..._PIE OF THE TIGER, it's the thrill of the bite!"_ He didn't know if he could take his much longer, and he doubted that it was actually safe to ride in the car with Dean. Reluctantly, he kept his mouth shut, after seeing the words scratched on the roof of the car, "_Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."_

Dean, blissfully unaware as ever to the musical preferences of others, continued singing obnoxiously as they turned out of the parking lot and onto the open road.


End file.
